


dial tone

by canticle



Series: canticle's kinkmeme fills [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, Team as Family, akira calls home and no one ever picks up : (
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 12:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14019945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: A year of phone calls that never quite connect.





	dial tone

**Author's Note:**

> For the life of me I cannot find the prompt that originated this fic, but if I remember correctly it was something along the lines of Akira calling home but never managing to reach his parents. Maybe I just hallucinated it, but I found this in my drafts folder and decided to finish it up anyway.

**“You’ve reached the Kurusu residence. No one is available to take your call. Please leave your name and number and a brief message.”**

_Uh, hey, mom. Hi, dad. Made it to Tokyo alright. The city is—it’s huge. I almost got lost making it to Leblanc. Uh…Sakura-san is letting me stay above his shop, though—I guess you’d know that already. Heh. It’s….big, at least. I’m going to Shujin tomorrow to get everything settled, classes and stuff. I, uh, sorry I missed you. I’ll call again in a few days. Love you._

**“You’ve reached the Kurusu residence. No one is available to take your call. Please leave your name and number and a brief message.”**

_Hey mom and dad. Sorry I missed you, just…wanted to give you an update. Everything’s fine. I’m settling in well at Shujin, I’ve, uh, made a couple friends. Life in the city is a lot different than what I was expecting, and the subway system is crazy. Uh….yeah. I’ll try earlier in the day next time. I promise I’m not getting into any more trouble. I’ll do you guys proud here. Love you._

**“You’ve reached the Kurusu residence. No one is available to take your call. Please leave your name and number and a brief message.”**

_Uh…hey... I hope everything’s alright, neither of you have been answering my texts or anything…_ **is** _everything alright? I mean—I’m sure they are, I just….mh. I’ve…been helping Sakura-san in his shop in my free time, been learning to make a mean cup of coffee. Maybe if either of you are in the city, you can stop by and I’ll show you…? I miss you. I miss home. Love you._  


**“You’ve reached the Kurusu residence. No one is avai—“**

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Bee—_

**“You’ve reached the Kurusu residence. No one is available to take your call. Please leave your name and number and a brief message.”**

_Mom, please—it’s been months, I know you’re still disappointed, but, **please—** I’m being good, I’m studying, I was at the top of my class during midterms, I’ve got a part-time job, I haven’t put a toe out of line, just— **talk** to me, **please—**_

* * *

 

 

It’s easy to tell when the kid’s called home.

He goes out in the evenings twice a week like clockwork, just outside of the café; holds the phone to his ear and paces around for half a minute, his shoulders all tense, his free hand a fist. Then they slump, every line in his body gone loose like a puppet with its strings cut, and when he steps back inside disappointment radiates off of him like heat.

Sojiro watches it happen for weeks, sees him go from mildly perturbed to actively upset, to raking his hand through his hair when the answering machine picks up. He’s distant when he comes back inside, more and more as the weeks march on. Sojiro watches something shrivel inside.

He’s good at hiding it from his friends, but Sojiro’s lived three of his lifetimes; he knows heartbreak when he sees it.

So when he comes in from the latest call with his glasses shoved up into his hair, mopping ineffectually at his face with the heel of his hand, Sojiro tells him to sit without hesitation.

It’s summer; Leblanc’s air conditioning is spotty but functional, enough that his customers still come in for coffee despite the heat outside. He takes care in choosing his beans now; something thick and rich and bitter should be just about right. The kid’s developing a nice palate for this stuff, and he needs something to take his mind off things. It’s not a blend Sojiro’s let him touch before.

The kid jumps when Sojiro slides the mug underneath his inattentive nose, taking a breath automatically. The look that crosses his face is something Sojiro savors; that moment of uncertain surprise. He hesitates lifting the cup to his mouth, hesitates taking a sip, hesitates rolling it in his mouth before he swallows.

Then he sets the mug down and scrubs a hand across his eyes again, and Sojiro nods. Yeah, that’s it.

He made this blend after Wakaba…well. After Wakaba. It’s not a blend he brings out lightly.

Futaba once described it as “a hug made out of sadness followed by a punch to the nose telling you to get over it.” Sojiro thinks she’s just about right.

He never planned on being buddy-buddy with the kid. It’s not in his nature to be soft to anyone but Futaba. But these past few months have shown Sojiro that he’s been an ass, especially now that Futaba is out and about and following him around like a puppy.

For Futaba’s sake, at least, a cup of coffee and a kind shoulder is the least he can do.

 

* * *

 

 

He hangs up the phone.

Ryuji, nose-deep into his beef bowl, gives him a very suspicious-looking side-eye, but Akira’s long since mastered his poker face. He’s certain he’s unreadable, but Ryuji reaches over wordlessly to tap his knuckles against Akira’s shoulder and then dumps a full load of ginger into Akira’s bowl.

 

He hangs up the phone.

Yusuke’s barely noticed his absence; he slips back into his position and watches Yusuke watch people, sketching lines and shapes in quick, messy doodles that flow from his pencil like water. It must be nice to be able to sink yourself into something so fully, with no distractions.

He’s so busy watching the pencil move that he doesn’t notice when Yusuke’s attention shifts to _him_.

 

He hangs up the phone.

Ann watches him as he walks across the roof; there’s kindness in her eyes, kindness and empathy, and it hits him that he may have kin here. Ann’s mentioned her parents are rarely around, and it would be so easy to open his mouth and _talk_ , but…if he breaches that barrier now, there’s no telling when he’ll be able to build it back up, or when it will fall when he most needs it to stand.

 

He hangs up the phone.

Makoto’s rearranged their study materials in his absence; she’s left the table, too, so he settles back into the chair and picks up his pen, trying to focus. He can’t. His thoughts are scattered to the winds, and he digs his free hand into his hair, scratching deep, angry lines into the side of his notebook. Then her hand rests cool and light at the back of his neck, just for a moment, as she slides a warm, steaming mug of tea under his nose for him to focus on instead.

 

He hangs up the phone.

It’s mean to take out his frustration on Haru’s plants, but she redirects his hands to the weeds that need pulling without comment. It’s hot and dirty work even at the tail end of November, but it’s work that needs to be done, and it’s work that keeps his mind off of the long, lazy tone of the answering machine.

 

He hangs up the phone.

Akechi looks at him with interest when he heads back upstairs, opening his mouth as if to ask, and Akira almost wishes he would so he could stuff his fist into that lying, traitorous mouth and make him _eat his words._ But Ann elbows him none-too-gently before any of the words can come out, and Futaba says something loud and distracting and cultivated precisely to draw Akechi’s attention, and Akira’s never been more grateful for them.

 

He hangs up the phone.

Morgana’s eyes are liquid and luminescent in the dark; the light trickling in from the window highlights the lash of his tail, and his silence is more evocative than any words could ever be. When Akira flops down onto his bed and buries his face into his pillow, Morgana delicately steps over to curl in the space between his ear and his neck and purrs, and purrs, and purrs, just barely loud enough to cover his hitching, uneven breaths.

 

He hangs up the phone.

Nijima-san asks him if he's ready, and he shakes his head. He’s never going to be ready, not for this. But he turns his phone off anyway and sets it in her outstretched hand, and follows her down the brightly-lit street to the police station.

 

He hangs up the phone.

Then, with Ryuji’s arm a still, warm weight around his waist, with Morgana’s snores sounding above his head, with the gentle noises of everyone else asleep on his floor and on his couch and spread all over his room, he calls again, and tells the answering machine he’s not coming home.


End file.
